Youth and Consequences
by LadySilver
Summary: The summer after their sophomore year has Scott, Stiles, and Isaac taking some time to relax and to reexamine their relationships.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I'm emptying out my WIPs folder. This is another story I started well before season 3 started. While it might incorporate some season 3 spoilers, consider it an AU from season 2. This story is based on a prompt for a Scott/Stiles/Isaac story. Comments and concrit are always welcome and are highly encouraging._

**Youth and Consequences**

by LadySilver

The bell rang, and Stiles was out of his seat, out of the classroom, and half way to his locker before its sounds finished reverberating through the halls. An amused grin quirked Scott's lips as he extracted himself from his desk and followed his friend through the halls. Fellow students bumped and pushed each other in their eagerness to quit the building; an elbow struck his side, a foot trod his toes, but even that couldn't dispel his good mood. Summer was finally here.

By the time Scott caught up with him, Stiles had crammed the remaining contents of his locker into his backpack and was excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of the open and empty storage unit.

"That's the fastest I've ever seen you clean anything," Scott commented. He gave an appreciative nod at the now-empty space.

Stiles bent in half, his backpack tucked in the crook of his waist, while he struggled to get the zipper to close. He looked up long enough to roll his eyes before returning to his fight with what looked like a pair of flat sticks that were slightly too large to fit in the main pocket. Scott didn't even want to know. "Like you're one to talk," he responded. "I've seen your room."

Scott clapped Stiles on the shoulder. "I learned from the best. A little more practice and I'm sure that I, too, can master the art of losing my socks _in my sock drawer_."

"That? That's nothing. Anyone can lose things in plain sight. The true art is in figuring out how to find things without looking for them." The sticks disappeared into the bag and the zipper slipped shut with a loud scrape. Satisfied, Stiles pumped an arm at his success before slipping his backpack into place for the last time of his sophomore year. Slinging an arm over Scott's shoulder, Stiles began leading his friend down the hall. "Come on," he urged. "We have places to go, food to eat. School to not be in. But, first, we need to tackle the 'perfectly organized' landfill that you call a locker. Quickly. This will be the test to find out how fast werewolves can haul ass."

Scott let Stiles tug on his arm like that would get him to move, then shook him off and slapped a hand to his forehead. "I forgot something."

Sounding alarmed, Stiles responded, "What? No. No forgetting things. No backtracking or retracing. We're supposed to be getting out of here. We have already been in this school way too long."

Scott made a face and glanced around the rapidly emptying halls like he couldn't believe his own forgetfulness. Letting the grin fully take over, he adjusted the already-full backpack that hung off his right shoulder and confessed: "I've had my locker cleaned out since this morning."

Stiles went still for a long second, then lunged for the backpack to examine it, as if Scott might be trying to pull one over on him. He yanked the zipper open and rifled through the crumpled papers and war-torn notebooks that were crammed inside, wrinkled his nose when he found the wadded up gym clothes shoved into the front pocket, then finally stepped back and leveled a very put-upon stare at his best friend. "You planned this," he accused. "You have been waiting all day just for this moment."

With a shake of his head, Scott corrected, "Not for this moment, no." He grinned, an eyebrow lifting in forecast of a secret soon to be shared. But, not yet. "I have been waiting all day to get out of here, though."

"Hey, that rhymes!" Stiles said. He knocked himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand and chided, "Bad, Stiles. English class is over. Three months of freedom from rhymes and alliteration and symbolism and…You can stop me anytime, Scott."

Scott laughed, his friend's exuberance a delight to see again. The spring semester of their sophomore year had easily been the strangest experience of both of their lives. The ringing of the last bell and Mrs. Edmund's cheerful fairwell of "Have a great summer!" had seemed like the endnote on that weirdness. "Why would I want to do that?" Scott asked.

Stiles shot him a look like the counter-argument was too inane to make, then bounded into the exiting crush of students and out the doors. The stream of students parted at the doorway, with the bulk of them heading toward the bus loading zone. Stiles turned the other direction, toward the parking lot, where his jeep had been not-so-carefully parked in the back. They got there in the fastest walk to guys can manage without it turning into an undignified run.

They were at the Jeep, their backpacks already tossed into the backseat, when Stiles said, "Too bad you have to go to summer school. We've got three months free and clear to do whatever we want, except…" Stiles trailed off as Scott ducked his head and scuffed his foot against the hot parking lot asphalt. "What?"

"I don't have to," Scott answered with a tiny shrug of his shoulders.

"You don't have to what?"

Scott looked up, his eyes meeting Stiles's. "I don't have to go to summer school."

Stiles's mouth dropped open. He used the tip of his finger to close it, swallowed, then asked, "Why not?"

Another shrug, like Scott wasn't really sure. "My mom talked to the acting principal and told him that I'd been dealing with some health issues. She even got a doctor's note to back it up."

"Deaton?" Stiles asked. "You know he's not a real doctor, right?"

"He is too! The number of times he's saved my life-"

"Please tell me you didn't give the principal a note from your _veterinarian_."

Scott chuckled, his earlier grin so etched into his face now that he was having trouble unlocking his features long enough to articulate. "Dude, she works at a hospital. She got one of her colleagues to write it. Said she owed her a favor."

"Your mom's awesome," Stiles commented with a shake of his head. Climbing into the car, he got the key into the ignition, turned it, then sat for a second, staring out the windshield as if he'd forgotten the next step. "But, don't you still have to fix your grades?"

"She convinced the principal to let me retake some tests. Ms. Morrell talked to a couple of the teachers. Even Coach put in a good word." Scott pulled the door open and slipped into the passenger seat. He hissed as summer-heated vinyl burned his legs. "So, now I'm officially a junior."

Stiles blinked rapidly. His keys jangled in his hand from the force of his grip on them. "How come I didn't know about any of this? I could have helped you study."

Leaning back in the seat, Scott propped his arms behind his head with the kind of insouciance that only summer vacation allowed. He took a moment to revel in knowing something that Stiles didn't, to enjoy the growing impatience on his friend's face at having to _wait _for an answer. Finally, he explained: "Because telling you this way was a lot more fun."

"You're evil," Stiles proclaimed. "I can't believe you kept this from me. Me?! All this time you've been letting me suffer, thinking that I was going to have to waste my summer sitting at home, all by myself, while you were out-" The Jeep jolted forward just as a group of former-Freshman danced in front of it. "Hey, assholes. Go celebrate somewhere else," he called out the window.

Beside him, Scott could only shake his head. Some things never changed.

Their conversation had to go on hold while Stiles navigated the Jeep through the parking lot and the gauntlet of other cars and trucks that were scattered around the parking lot like Escher had painted the lines. For all the other kids' eagerness to leave the school building, many had made it only as far as the parking lot before grouping up to discuss urgent summer plans, and vehicles that had been backed from their spaces stopped without warning or logic for the driver to talk to someone whom he had spotted crossing his path.

Scott tuned out Stiles's swearing and reveled in the fact that he'd made it; he'd finished his sophomore year of high school with passing grades all around, albeit lower ones that he was normally comfortable with. Considering everything that had happened, he was more-than-mildly surprised that he'd made it through without killing anyone.

They'd finally gotten onto the main road, when Stiles picked the thread back up with "So, summer's all ours? Free and clear? We can do whatever we want?" He had to shout over the noise of the air rushing past the car and the rumble of the motor, though he still managed to hit a register that had Scott wincing and rubbing his ears.

"I still have to work," Scott corrected.

Stiles dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "I meant the rest of the time."

Scott grinned and kicked his feet as far out in front of him as the depth of the floor well allowed. "No summer school," he confirmed, highlighting the information he knew Stiles really wanted.

"That amazing!" Stiles proclaimed, like he was still having trouble believing it. He peered at Scott sideways, seeking to confirm that Scott wasn't lying. Scott's posture must have provided all the validation that Stiles needed. He tapped out a quick rhythm of finality on his steering wheel and sat up straighter. "Totally beautiful! Summer break, here we come! I think I want to kiss you."

It wasn't the first time Stiles had made some comment about kissing Scott. Normally Scott dismissed the overtures because, well, it was Stiles. But it was summer. Summer had its own rules and Scott felt like, after everything they'd been through over the last semester, that he owed it to himself to take advantage of that. Also, it was Stiles. "Sure," he replied. "OK."

Both the boys lurched forward as the Jeep came to a sudden stop. Stiles had slammed on the brake and was now sitting with both hands clenched tight on the wheel, staring at Scott with widened eyes. The engine idled for a moment, then stalled completely. "What?"

With one hand braced on the dashboard, Scott assessed the situation. Luck had been on their side; the Jeep's abrupt stop hadn't involved any other cars. "Stiles. Car."

Stiles didn't respond. His mouth hung open in stunned silence and he seemed oblivious to the fact that he had very nearly caused a car accident, and that he still could if someone coming up behind him wasn't paying attention to the stalled car in the middle of the road.

Stiles shook himself. "Not caring," he stated. "You said 'OK'? I heard you say 'OK'."

Scott nodded and Stiles's eyes went even wider like what Scott said was the fulfillment of his deepest dreams.

Oblivious to the traffic still passing around them, Stiles unplugged his seatbelt and started to scramble across the center console to where Scott was seated.

Someone behind them laid on the horn and he jumped, ramming his head into the Jeep's roof.

Scott steadied his friend and pushed him back into the driver's seat at the same time. "How about a rain check?" he suggested. "You know? When we're not in danger of being rear-ended?"

For second, Stiles made a face like he didn't think that was a good enough reason to forestall kissing Scott. Then he scrunched his lips together and forced out a breath through his nose. "Fine," he said. "But I'm totally holding you to it." He turned to the task of getting the Jeep started again while Scott repositioned himself in the passenger seat, thankful that he hadn't ripped his own seatbelt from the car with his strength.

The Jeep resumed moving, then quickly met and surpassed the speed limit. The wind whipped around them, repleat with the scents of exhaust and fried foods from the roadside restaurants.

"Alive," Scott prompted, which Stiles reluctantly conceded to with a slowing of the Jeep so that they at least weren't passing _every _car on the road. "Also, my mom's home now and I have to work this afternoon."

"Now you tell me," Stiles grumbled, allowing the Jeep to slow a bit more.

Scott tilted the seat farther back and pillowed his arms behind his head again. "We have time," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

The sun that came through the open windows warmed his body comfortably; the clock on the dashboard reminded him that the class he wasn't in right now was Econ. Scott couldn't remember the last time he'd felt more at ease. Summer vacation had always been a time to throw away old routines and to start afresh. He needed that more than ever this year. Kissing Stiles felt like a natural extension step, and one he was surprisingly eager to explore.

Too soon, they reached Scott's house. Stiles dropped him off with a reminder to call _as soon as he was available._ "You're only getting one raincheck on this, dude," Stiles said.

"One's all I want," Scott replied, which sent Stiles into another flurry of rapid blinking. It was another minute before Stiles could collect himself enough to drive away. The effect his decision was having on Stiles made Scott feel oddly proud of himself and he decided that summer was off to a great start.

Scott's good mood evaporated as soon as he saw his mother's face. He let his backpack drop to the floor and took one halting step toward her before coming to an abortive stop. The front door was still open behind him, spilling a swath of bright summer light into the house.

Melissa shook her head, her expression a mask of studied neutrality. Wringing the dishtowel clutched in her hands, she answered, "Your father wants you to come visit."

Scott frowned, not sure how he felt about that. He hadn't seen his father since the previous summer and had only talked to him twice in the intervening year. Both conversations had been stilted, uncomfortable affairs with neither of them sure what to say to the other. It seemed obvious to him that whatever relationship they'd once had, it was over. While the idea of breaking up with one's parent felt strange, Scott could think of no better way to categorize what had happened. "You told him I can't, right? I have to work," he said, grappling for the first excuse to come to mind. "We need the money."

Again, Melissa shook her head. "I've already talked to Dr. Deaton. He agreed that you could use some time away from here."

Scott's eyes widened in disbelief. "Mom!" he protested, because, while it was probably true that he could use a vacation, going to his father's was not the way to get one.

"Your father already bought the bus ticket." She paused, drew a deep breath, and gave the dishtowel an extra hard twist. "You're leaving on Friday."

"Friday?! Mom?! That's, like, three days from now. I can't be ready in three days. How long am I supposed to stay there?"

"Four weeks."

Four weeks was nearly half his summer vacation. He'd had plans for this break. Lots of plans, most of which involved sleeping very late and doing alarmingly little. Then there was the matter of what he'd just said to Stiles, and the horrible realization that being sent away for four weeks was bound to screw up any momentum on that front. "Stiles!" he blurted out, that one name a short-hand for nearly everything that summer was supposed to be about.

"Stiles can live without you for a few weeks." Melissa's brow crinkled as she considered the truth of those words. She tucked back a stray curl that had come loose from her ponytail and stood up straighter, taking on the pose of resoluteness that Scott knew all too well. She was going to stand by this announcement. "You can still text and call. You're going to be in Los Angeles, not the middle of nowhere. I promise you'll be able to get a cellphone signal."

Scott dropped his head in defeat, his hands gripping tight on the back of his head. The sunlight played across the scratched hardwood flooring, twisting the shadows around his feet. Four weeks, leaving on Friday. That was just enough time to get a taste of summer before it was ripped away from him. Four weeks was one month and that—

Scott's head popped back up. "I can't go," he stated.

"I told you—" Melissa started, but Scott interrupted.

"No, it's not Stiles. Monday is the full moon." He pressed his mouth shut before all the worries tied up in that observation could spill out.

Melissa stilled, speechless, for a long moment, then tipped her eyes toward the ceiling as if the offending object already hung overhead. "That's a real thing?" she asked quietly.

Scott nodded. He wasn't about to take _now _to go into how the full moon situation was so much more complicated than his mother thought, because this was the possibly the longest conversation they'd had since she found out and he didn't want to sacrifice it that quickly.

In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that his mother had initiated the visit to his father's in order to get rid of him and that it hadn't been his father's idea at all. He pushed that thought down. "I can't go through the full moon at Dad's. It—" would probably destroy any attempt at re-anchoring himself, he thought, which would probably end in him slaughtering everyone. "—would be impossible to keep him from finding out."

Melissa acknowledged the danger of that possibility with a long closing of her eyes. The denim capris and bright pink t-shirt she wore suddenly looked like they'd gained two sizes on her. They both knew that all of her difficulties in adjusting to her son's new supernatural state would look like nonchalant acceptance compared to how Scott's father would react. Scott even _telling _him the truth was simply out of the question.

"I'll call him back," she responded. "Ask him if you can come out Tuesday instead."

"Do I have to go?" Scott was trying to keep his tone reasonable, but even he could hear it lilting toward a whine. He'd been officially on summer vacation for less than an hour and already it was blowing up around him.

Melissa gave the dishtowel a final, hard twist. "Yes. As long as he has legal right to you, you have to go."

"Tell him I have to be back before the full moon?"

"I'll look up the dates," Melissa promised, which sounded really hopeful. Scott was trying to work out how to winnow more time off the trip when she added, "Your father's the one buying the bus tickets."

"Mom," Scott warned.

Holding up a hand to still his protest, Melissa stated, "I'll see what I can do." She turned and headed back toward the kitchen and its wall-mounted phone, leaving Scott alone in the hallway with the open doorway unnoticed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Isaac hadn't yet figured out how to deal with dinner times. His current foster parents were an older couple who had never had children. In their retirement, they'd signed on with the Beacon County system. As one of the few foster families _in _Beacon Hills, Isaac counted himself lucky to have been placed with them.

However, in a lot of ways, dealing with the Acevados was like dealing with his father: there was some set of underlying rules that everyone was supposed to know and follow, from which deviation would result in punishment, except no one had bothered to tell him what they were. Unlike his father, the Acevados' punishment came only in the form of disappointment, but they seemed to spend a lot of time disappointed in him.

His foster mother, was short, with slender shoulders, wide hips, and a preference for long skirts that swayed around her ankles. "Isaac," she asked, as she set the last of the serving dishes on the table and sat down. "How was your last day?"

Isaac thought about how to answer her, thought about what she was even _asking_, and twisted his body against the hard wood of the dining room chair. Finally, he settled on an innocuous, "Fine."

Dinner tonight was some kind of noodle dish he didn't recognize. Its spices were pungent and much, much hotter than anything he was used to. He could feel sweat beading along his hairline just from breathing the scent, though the Acevados seemed not only unaffected, but excited about the meal. Their heartbeats thundered in his ears and their stomachs rumbled loudly. Isaac crouched lower in his seat, hoping to get through tonight's meal without too much pain.

"We haven't discussed your plans for summer vacation," Mr. Acevado began. He was the same height as his wife, coming up only to mid-chest on Isaac when they stood side-by-side, with a thick, trimmed beard of peppered hair. "Is there anything you would like to do?"

Summers for Isaac used to involve spending a lot of time in the graveyard, helping out his father. What time he could carve away from that was spent in the pool, any pool. The Laheys had had their own pool at the house, of course, but Isaac still bought a pass for the public pool down the street, though he never got as much use of it as he planned. "Swimming," Isaac mumbled into a mouthful of noodles. The first bite burned on his lips and tongue and sent flares of heat up his nasal passages. He reached quickly for his glass of milk and drowned half of it in one swallow.

"Do you and your friends like to go swimming?" Mr. Acevado asked.

Isaac blinked up at him in surprise, a new forkful of noodles stalled half-way through his mouth and still close enough to burn his sinuses. Swimming, he thought, wasn't an activity that required friends; that was the whole point. "Not really."

"You can have friends over if you want," Mrs. Acevado reminded him. Her name was Najla and she was always telling Isaac to call her that, though he hadn't yet been able to bring himself to follow through. His father never let him call adults by their first names. "There's the game room down in the basement and _our_ pool is entirely at your disposal."

Isaac nodded and tried to take a smaller, more careful bite of noodles next. The flavor was good, just strong. He wondered briefly how the food tasted to someone without werewolf senses and if his own were why he was having so much trouble with it. His eyes began to water.

Mr. Acevado—Raul—shared a look with his wife, took a careful sip from the wine glass at his place, then leaned toward Isaac. "We're concerned about how well you're adjusting. We know you've been through a lot, but you play sports and your report card was decent-"

"Except for Chemistry," Mrs. Acevado interjected under her breath.

Isaac ignored her because Harris's class was practically impossible to pass if you weren't a red-headed genius named Lydia, and everyone knew that.

"-You just spend so much time by yourself," Mr. Acevado continued. "Coming straight home after practice, going straight to your room after dinner. You're a teenager..."

"I have friends," Isaac interjected, grip tightening on his fork. "I mean, if you want to meet them to see for yourself-" He cringed as he spoke, though, because, while he had several people on his list who might count as friends, he didn't know if any of them counted him back. It was one thing to work together with them to stop a psychotic killer, and another to invite them over for chocolate chip cookies and _Halo_.

Isaac knew as soon as spoke that his protest wasn't what they wanted to hear. Both their brows creased and they once again traded a significant glance. He drew a deep breath, trying to get a hint from their scents, but the burn of the spices covered everything.

Mrs. Acevado set down her fork and folded her hands on her lap. "I think what my husband means," she began, "is girls. A young man your age should be spending more time with girls."

Isaac slumped farther into his chair. His long limbs were now so far under the table that he half-expected to see his feet on the other side. He'd only been with the Acevados for a few weeks, which wasn't a lot of time for them to get to know each other—not that Isaac had been very forthcoming. This wasn't the first time they'd brought up his dating life, though. And he knew it wasn't going to be the last. As much as he didn't want to impose on them, this seemed like a point that needed addressing. "Not really into girls," he murmured.

His confession was lost in the loud chiming of the doorbell that reverberated through the house. Isaac rubbed his ears and tried to squirm away from the echoes without any success.

"I'll get it," Mr. Acevado said, pushing himself away from the table.

Mrs. Acevado leaned back in her chair and picked up her wine glass, though she didn't bring it to her lips, while she waited for her husband to return. She had an expression on her face like she was hovering between asking a question and demanding an explanation. Surrounded by kitchen walls that were painted a bright red and trimmed with brighter yellow, Isaac felt like he'd landed in the belly of some giant beast.

His ears cleared and he heard the distinctive patter of Erica's heartbeat a second before Mr. Acevado called out in a tone that was almost fervently happy, "Issac, someone's here for you. A young lady."

He took a moment to breathe and will his claws away, unaware until just then that they'd been digging into the fabric of his jean shorts at all. Without meeting Mrs. Acevado's eyes, he stood up—scooting his chair the minimum distance from the table required for him to escape from its confines—and slipped down the hall.

Erica was standing in the doorway with her hands clasped loosely in front of her and her eyes down, a pose that was so not her that, for a moment, Isaac suspected that his ears and nose were lying about identifying the person in front of him. But her smell was too distinctive, especially the thread that marked her as belonging to the same pack as him, and the wicked glimmer she allowed when she looked at him dispelled any doubts. Her long blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders, covering a simple black t-shirt. She brushed one side out of the way and asked, "Can you come out and play?"

Next to him, Mr. Acevado cleared his throat.

Isaac rubbed at the back of his neck, deliberating about what Erica's real intentions were and why she'd shown up at the house like this. To buy time, he made a cursory introduction, concluding with a gesture to the Camero parked in the driveway and Boyd seated behind the wheel with, "...and that's her boyfriend." From his seat, Boyd waved a hand in greeting.

Mr. Acevado's face fell.

"I'm busy. We're eating dinner," Isaac explained to Erica, with a glance at his foster father to try to gauge how much trouble he was going to get into for what he was going to say next. "And I already have plans for after."

Now that he'd said it, Isaac scrambled to come up with a reason that he couldn't go off with Erica and Boyd. His _real _reasons involved a complicated combination of being miffed that they had run off and missed the big showdown with Jackson and Gerard, a notion that they'd left him behind on purpose, and discomfort at being their third wheel.

"What kind of plans?" Erica asked, pursing her lips in a moue of disbelief. "Are you headed out to the woods?" By which she was really asking if Isaac planned to go see Derek. At least she had the sense to be discreet. "Because we haven't been there in awhile, either."

"Uh. No," Isaac answered. While Isaac had no reason to avoid Derek, he hadn't felt real compelled to visit him either. Without a common enemy, they didn't have much in common.

"I'm certain that Isaac can find some time to go out tonight," Mr. Acevado answered for him.

Isaac bristled, but bit his tongue. He didn't want to make them angry, even if he was fairly sure that they wouldn't kick him out for not being social enough. "I can't," he repeated. "I mean, it's not just my decision."

Tilting her head, Erica regarded him. Isaac could almost hear her thinking "_This better be good."_

"Scott," he blurted out. It wasn't a lie, exactly, so his heartbeat didn't give it away. He didn't officially have plans with Scott, but that was only because he hadn't made them yet. He thought that Scott would be open to hanging out. He hoped?

Erica brightened, all the defensiveness that had been building in her posture dissipating in an instant. "Double date!" she suggested, like she'd been aching for an opening to say that. Isaac spared a glance at his foster father, who showed no reaction to the entendre. Erica straightened up, dropping the innocent act. "We have that thing next week, remember? There are still some details that need to be _iron_ed out. Let's go grab some ice cream and, you know."

"Maybe," Isaac replied, noncommittally.

"I'll let Scott know, too. He won't dare miss it," Erica countered.

And that sounded like a threat, Isaac thought. He barred his teeth at her briefly. "I'll talk to you later, Erica."

She hesitated, unfazed by his gesture. When it became clear that Isaac wasn't going to invite her in, she grabbed his arm and yanked him outside. "I'm just borrowing him for a sec," she explained, as she dug her nails into Isaac's forearm and pulled him around the corner of the house. "I'll try not to damage him too much."

Isaac hissed, eyes narrowing. "What are you trying to do? I don't need them asking questions."

With her fingernails gouging into his forearm, Erica dragged him around to the side of the house. As soon as they were out of human earshot, she let go and planted herself in front of him on the meticulously cut grass so that he would have to push her out of the way to pass. "It's summer!" she announced, throwing her arms wide as if to encompass the three months.

"Yeah, I've figured that out. The big clue was today being the last day of school. Did you even go? I bet you cut classes again." He covered his mouth with his hand as if scandalized. "Or are you officially a dropout now? Your parents must be so proud."

"My parents are so thrilled with me coming home that they don't give a shit what I do." Erica's tone soured. "Not like they cared all that much before, or anything."

"And Derek?"

"Derek's not my boss," she shot back.

Isaac conceded that with a half shrug. "He is your Alpha, though. Last I checked, that means something."

"He's also yours. And last _I _checked, that didn't mean much to you at all."

Isaac ignored the dig. He didn't need to explain himself to her, especially when he didn't know if there _was_ anything to explain. Things changed. People left, people lost interest. Wasn't that how life worked? "Did Derek let you borrow his car, or did you steal it?" he asked, instead.

"Does it matter?" she countered. "He wasn't using it, and he's so desperate to keep any of us on his good side that I don't think he'd care as long as we don't scratch the paint."

"So, that's your plan? You're going to drive around Beacon Hills all night in Derek's Camero and make a point of not scratching the paint? Sounds like a can't miss."

Erica laughed, the sound loud and bright against the still neighborhood backdrop. "Don't be stupid. We're young. We're powerful." She threw her head back; the sunlight limned her skin. "We can do _anything_ we want."

Not too long ago he would have completely agreed with her. Today? From around the corner, he could hear the tapping of Mr. Acevado's fingers on the doorframe while he waited. The rhythm carried a distinct tempo of irritation and impatience. "Yeah, that's been working out pretty well for us. I don't remember signing up to nearly get cut in half or to be skewered on knives. _Sharp_ knives."

"That's in the past," Erica responded with a sweep of her hands as if to brush away all the bad things that had happened to them. We need to live in the now." Growing more serious, she continued, "Me? I thought I'd start with getting my driver's license. While I'm working on that, I'm going to go Cosmic Bowling and then I think I'm going to head down to the pier and ride every single roller coaster they have over and over. Maybe I'll squeeze in some scuba diving lessons in my spare time. I have a long list of things that I've never been able to do before, and I'm going to do them all this summer."

The bushes that sketched the boundary between the Acevados' property and the neighbors rustled in the silence as Isaac stared at Erica, waiting for her to get to a point that he could actually comment on.

She leaned forward. Her breath gusted out over his face when she added, "You know what else I'm going to do? I'm going to have tons of great sex."

With a blush, Isaac glanced away. The perimeter of the house was landscaped with rock gardens featuring small statues and fountains. His gaze landed on a granite obelisk. He bit his lip and jerked his eyes to the right, only to have them land on a large pair of rocks that happened to be nestled up against each other. He could feel more heat gathering within him, and no doubt Erica could sense it too, which just made it worse.

"What do you want to do, Isaac? That's what this summer is about. What have you always wanted to do that you never could _before?_" She said the last with so much emphasis that he knew she meant the Bite.

It was a good question, and one he would have once had a long list to give as an answer. So much has changed, though. How many times had he wished his father would die? Then he had, and with him went the home that Isaac had known since he was a baby. Gone were the constant reminders of his mother and Camden written in scuff marks and scratches, pictures hung just so, and the tinkle of windchimes over the kitchen window. Gone was the room he'd had that was stuffed with clothes, books, and half-remembered toys—a lifetime of achievements and accumulations—that all belonged to him. Gone was the solidity of knowing his address and phone number and being able to recite them without thinking.

Sometimes he wondered if the abuse had been worth _having _a home. Even if it had been years since he felt safe bringing anyone to it.

"I dunno," he answered, gaze flicking around the yard now as if to find inspiration in some other part of the landscaping. "What difference does it make? It's not like I can go running off whenever I want. Even if they let me, I don't have my job at the cemetery anymore, which means no money."

Erica tapped a long fingernail against her lip in thought. "You're over-thinking this," she stated. "Taking a risk doesn't need to be expensive. You liked dancing with me and Jackson at that rave; that was taking a risk. What's another one?" Hardly had the question left her mouth when she snapped her fingers like the idea had just come to her. "Just ask him out already!"

Isaac blinked. "Jackson?" Jackson was gone. His whole family had abruptly picked up and left the country and not even Danny had had contact with him since.

"Scott!" Erica replied. "I've seen the way you look at him." She grinned, a gleam shining in her eyes. "_Everyone's _seen the way you look at him. Stop pining and ask him out."

Isaac took a moment to count the blades of grass around his shoes; his mouth had gone so dry that his tongue stuck to his palate. When he finally summoned enough moisture to speak, he could only manage a sticky, "He's straight."

Erica scoffed and rolled her eyes. The heavy eyeliner she'd used only served to add extra weight to her scorn. "You don't know that. He could be bi."

"He's in love with Allison," Isaac protested. About nothing else was he so unhappy to be so certain. Hunching his shoulders, he drew in on himself like each reason for Scott being out of reach was physically diminishing him.

"And she's _also _left the country. Good riddance. Trust me on this, neither of them are ever coming back. Seriously, at this point you're just making excuses. What's the worst he can say? 'No?'"

"He could say 'no,'" Isaac agreed, slouching a few millimeters more. "He'd probably say 'no.' They just broke up."

Erica cuffed him on the back of the head. It didn't hurt, didn't spark any of the fear that he felt when his father hit him. All he could do was rub the spot and start his grass-blade count over. "Go finish your dinner," she told him, the exasperation so strong in her voice that he could smell it. "We'll come back after my driving lesson and pick the _two of you_ up for ice cream. Don't even try to argue." She opened her mouth as if to say something else, stopped. The expression turned into a slow grin which she held, her eyes sweeping up and down Isaac's body. Then she turned and sauntered back to the car.

Isaac watched her go, watched her the bounce spring into her step and the self-assured flip of her hair as she tossed her head and took another step closer to living her dreams. That, he thought, was what he wanted. He'd thought he'd had it for a few days after the bite took, and then everything became so complicated so fast and the illusion shattered.

When Isaac got back to the house, his foster father was still waiting at the door, his mouth bowed in an impatient frown. Isaac slunk into the hallway, taking care to stay out of reach, just in case returning to a cold dinner would make him testy.

"Erica seems like a lovely young woman," Mr. Acevado stated, without leaving his post at the door.

Isaac nodded, but didn't offer any correction.

"You have plans with her next week…?" he asked next, his tone leaving the question so open-ended that he clearly expected Isaac to fill him in on the details of those plans.

"Yes."

Mr. Acevado stopped, drawing Isaac to a stop with him. He stroked his short beard and inspected the sconce that hung on the wall behind Isaac. Isaac could feel him baiting the hook of his next question, trying to find the one that would entice him to talk about all the things he really didn't want to talk about with them. "Have you ever thought about seeing someone?"

Isaac scowled, certain that they'd always had this conversation. "Erica's dating Boyd," he repeated.

Mrs. Acevado stepped out of the kitchen then, her wan smile barely a crease on her face. She clasped her hands in front of her and didn't try to close the distance between them. "Sorry," she answered slowly. "We weren't referring to a girlfriend. I have a good friend, Dr. Olsen. She's a psychiatrist."

"A shrink?"

"A psychiatrist," she corrected. "She specializes in teenagers. With everything that you've been through..." She trailed off, a long gust of breath finishing the thought for her.

Isaac closed his eyes, concentrated on his heartrate, working to keep himself calm. "I've talked to the counselor at school a couple times," he answered. It was partially true. He hadn't really talked to the counselor about anything except what classes he needed to take next and what he needed to do to keep his eligibility on the lacrosse team, but wasn't that what the counselors were there to help him with?

Mr. Acevado nodded once, sharply, as if Isaac's statement confirmed all his worst fears. "That's a good start, though not an option we'll be able to take advantage of with the schools not in session." He started back toward the kitchen, extending an arm to usher Isaac in front of him. "Give it some thought. Maybe you could talk it over with your friend if you don't feel comfortable talking to us?"

"Maybe," Isaac agreed, though he doubted that Scott would be at all interested in that conversation.

Mrs. Acevado turned before the boys could reach her and led the way back to the table. "I spoke with Emily—Dr. Olsen—today and she has an opening tomorrow afternoon. I know she's looking forward to getting to know you."

Isaac's head dropped. Though he allowed himself to be guided back to the table, each step was heavy against the hardwood floor; the sharp tips of his claws bit into his palms. This was it. This was the start of his inevitable slide into being ejected from this foster home. No one wanted to put up with a person who couldn't live up their expectations. Already he was dreading this summer vacation more than any other time in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles sat in his car for a minute after dropping Scott off, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. Scott wanted to kiss him! Scott had _agreed _to kiss him! This was unprecedented and amazing and the perfect portent for the summer. They were best buds, and the odds of them spending the next three months living at each others' houses were so good that they weren't even worth speculating about, and now there would be kissing. With a little time for Scott to get over Allison leaving him, he and Stiles could move on to touching, and then maybe...Stiles's eyes widened as his brain supplied all kinds of possibilities. He shifted in his seat, his body's response to the mental imagery swift and strong enough to pull a long groan from his throat.

"Not yet, boy," he murmured to his lap. "We can't get ahead of ourselves. It's not a race. This is Scott we're talking about. Our Scott."

His dick was eager for a lot, and being talked down was not one of them. Stiles pressed his palm to his crotch and sent himself a silent promise. He was not about to jerk one off while sitting parked in front of Scott's house.

His phone buzzed, sending a jolt through his dick that made him hiss. It was Scott; it had to be Scott. Scott was texting him to come in the house right now and claim that kiss. Fumbling the phone out of his pocket, he promptly dropped it into the floorwell, then knocked his head against the dash as he scrambled to retrieve it.

It wasn't Scott.

He squinted at the screen, turned the phone upside down and shook it, without any success at rearranging the letters. Deflated, he slumped in his seat, and read the text.

The message was from Lydia, a demand that he meet her for lunch at his favorite burger restaurant.

"Now?" he typed back. His stomach rumbled in a sympathetic reminder that the half day at school had not included lunch and he frowned at succession of anatomy parts that had chosen to develop opinions in the last few minutes.

"Right now," she answered.

He glanced at the house just as the front door swung shut. No one stood on the porch beckoning to him, no one stood in a window waiting for him. From the driveway, the house appeared unoccupied, like everyone had gone out and forgotten to tell him. "Fine," he answered with a shrug that she couldn't see. It wasn't like he had anything better to do until Scott got ahold of him.

At the restaurant, he pulled into the first available space, cut the engine, and looked at his phone one more time. The message still wasn't from Scott. The two of them texted each other dozens of times a day; Stiles i_called/i _Scott multiple times a day, often for no reason except to share his conclusion about whether the meatloaf wrap was worth eating or which person had vandalized the equipment shed this time. Their call logs contained so many entries to the other person that if Stiles's dad actually did want to know what was going on with his son, all he'd have to do was look at his phone and then he'd have a record of half the thoughts that passed through his son's mind.

But Scott was not following protocol.

Stiles's face twisted into a visage of disgust. He cleared his screen and got out of the Jeep.

He found Lydia at one of the outdoor tables, the only one with its umbrella mounted. She looked up when he arrived at the table, the glare through her sunglasses daring him to offer a good explanation for his presence.

"You texted," he replied, holding up his phone for her to examine if she doubted him.

"You're late," she countered.

Stiles scowled in frustration. "I can't make the traffic go any faster than it does. Speed limits are a thing, you know." Not that he generally cared about speed limits, but until he learned how to drive i_through/i_ the other cars on the road, there were still some laws he had to obey. "Danny," Stiles acknowledged, to the other member of the dining party.

Danny nodded at Stiles with a flat smile. "Hey." Though polite, he had a distance to his expression like he had been coerced into doing a favor he really didn't want to do.

_Oookay, _Stiles thought. He sought for a distraction and found it in the food already piled on the table. "You ordered already! What'd'ya get?" Plopping onto the sun-warmed plastic seat, he began rooting through the wrapped packages.

Lydia slapped his hand away from the first burger he picked up. "That one's mine." She pushed a second, messier, package toward him. "That one's yours. Danny doesn't eat red meat, so he got the chicken fingers." She indicated a paper box, which Danny accepted as if Lydia bought him lunch all the time.

Stiles's burger was the one he always ordered, and as he wrapped his hands around the seeded bun, he had a moment of pause to wonder how Lydia i_knew/i _which one he always ordered. He couldn't remember that detail ever coming up in casual conversation, nor would it be the kind of thing Danny might know. Shrugging to himself, he took a giant bite of the burger. Ketchup and mayonnaise slopped out of the back and over his hands and he let out a loud groan of pleasure at both the taste and the aesthetic sensation of being so fully immersed in what he loved.

Without looking at him, Danny rolled his eyes. He was, in fact, keeping his face averted in a way that was awfully suspicious.

Swallowing, Stiles prodded Danny's arm with his elbow. "So, are you the good cop, the bad cop, or another interogee?" He raised his eyebrows at Lydia as he asked. Her strawberry blonde hair hung in coifed curls and her flawless skin was perfectly made up. This was more effort than she, or anyone, would put into the last day of school. Which meant, that she had an agenda.

Danny busied himself with emptying packets of condiments into the top of his box, splotches of color against the white background like poultry diacritics. Another prod brought a reluctant, "Honestly? I'm not really sure." With that, he clammed up.

"We were just talking about our summer plans before you arrived," Lydia chimed in, sounding cheerful in the ditzy way that she used to talk when she was trying to hide how much she knew. "Danny's going to Hawai'i to visit family and I'm off to Europe in a couple weeks. There's a new fall wardrobe there calling my name. What are you doing? Anything exciting?"

"God, I hope not," Stiles blurted out. His mind flashed through all of his near death experiences of the last few months. The cut and bruises on his body from Gerard Argent's assault were long healed, but they had left permanent scars in his memory. "I've been looking forward to rest, relaxation, and lots of dedicated down time." He brightened up again at the recollection of what he could possibly be doing with some of that down time, if the first kiss was as glorious and life-changing as he knew it would be.

"Is that really why you brought me here?" he continued. "To talk about our summer vacation? We could have used the phone function of the phone for that. You know, that thing it does where it's like text messaging but with our voices instead."

"You're here because it's lunch time," Lydia answered. She bit into her burger which, though piled high with toppings, had the temerity not to drip all over her. She chewed, swallowed, and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "Also, we have business to discuss."

"Business?" Stiles asked.

At the same time, Danny frowned. "Is this about Jackson?"

With a huff, Lydia set her burger down and folded her hands behind it like a fence to keep either of them from sneaking in and stealing it while she was distracted. "Since no one in this town is willing to pass vital information on to those of us who need to know it," she started, her words clipped and enunciated, "-I have taken it upon myself rectify the matter. Once we are all on the same page, we will be better equipped to help each other with the unique needs of our situation."

The burger froze enroute to his mouth as Stiles tried to figure out what, besides the obvious, Lydia could be referring to. "Um," he said. "Are you sure?"

Lydia shot him a withering glare. Of course she was sure. Everything she did, she did because she was sure about what she wanted and how she was going to go about getting it.

Accepting the inevitability of his lunchtime fate, he bit off another mouthful, then kicked back in his seat with his condensation-wet cup of soda to watch the fallout.

With a flip of her head, Lydia dismissed him and turned all her attention onto Danny. "I'm going to say this as clearly as possible and if you have any comments to make about my mental health, you can kindly keep them to yourself," Lydia informed him.

Danny's face paled, his gaze darted to Stiles and back. "Lydia, I-"

She interrupted him with a click of her tongue. "Let me rephrase. You can keep all your thoughts to yourself until I'm done because I _am_ going to be heard. Is that clear?"

Danny nodded. Stiles nodded, too, even though she had not directed the question at him. Lydia might have fallen from Queen Bee status in the high school hierarchy, but she hadn't lost the sting.

"Good." Lowering her voice fractionally, she stated. "And, yes, this is about Jackson. In a way. Jackson is a werewolf. Did he tell you that? No, of course not. He apparently told everyone _except _his best friend and his girlfriend." She sighed in frustration, then continued, "Also, Scott is a werewolf. Werewolves are real. This town is full of werewolves. I, however, am not a werewolf. Neither is Stiles. And we should all count our blessings for that." With the barrage of sentences finished, she leaned back and crossed her arms triumphantly.

Stiles took a long slurp of his drink and watched Danny's face work through a series of expressions, starting with the "are you nuts?" response that Lydia had had the foresight to forbid and moving immediately into a more generic confusion.

"Isaac Lahey is also a werewolf," Stiles interjected. "In case you were wondering." He held back the last three names—Boyd, Erica, and Miguel—as trump cards.

Danny carefully dipped a chicken finger in the barbeque sauce, swirled it around, then set it down. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"You could start by saying that you believe me," Lydia supplied.

Danny splayed his hands helplessly. "I believe you? Look, Lydia, I thought you called me here to set us up," he stated, gesturing between himself and Stiles. "No offense," he said to Stiles, "but I'm not interested in you."

Stiles grinned. Even yesterday, he would have been offended. There was no way that being rejected could have been anything other than offensive. Today, however, was different. Today, he didn't need to care if Danny found him attractive. "No worries."

Danny frowned, looking like he was trying to figure out if _he_ could be offended or not. "You're not upset?"

"Nope."

Lydia cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said after both the boys brought their attention back on her. "Is there a reason we're not focused on the important information?"

Stiles shrugged. "Werewolves are old news on my end, and Danny's probably trying to work out what the punchline is." He tucked the last of the burger into his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with a long sip of cola. "Hint: There is no punchline."

"You're both serious?" Danny asked. He twisted in his seat, searching the people around him as if looking for the true instigator of the joke. No one so much as looked their way. "You're both serious. Is this some kind of end of the year practical joke?"

"Think about it," Stiles replied. "All the things you saw during practice that didn't make sense, like the time that Scott was sniffing everyone."

At the reminder, Danny's eyes narrowed.

"And the chains that fell out of my locker that one time. Don't think I didn't see you staring at them."

"Jackson," Lydia supplied. Just his name. No reference to an event or a situation, no other words to hide it or to bury it under. Just Jackson. As his best friend, Danny should have been the most able to spot all the ways that Jackson changed.

Danny pushed his food away, crumpling it all together in mess of uneaten chicken fingers and colorful sauces.

Watching Danny put the clues together was kind of fascinating, except for how disappointing it even happening was. He'd always tagged Danny as one of the smart ones at Beacon Hills High, and yet the guy hadn't figured out that his best friend was a werewolf? Stiles had put it all together in less than a day, and that was i_without/i _his friend bleeding black blood all over the place.

"So, I guess that makes you part of the club now." Turning to Lydia he inquired, "Why is there a club?" Telling Danny made sense. It would be a lot easier to use his hacking skills without having to trick him every time. But, that didn't explain the timing. They weren't exactly under any kind of threat right now.

"I told you," Lydia answered. "We humans need to do a better job of looking out for each other. If we've learned anything over the past few months, it's that communication prevents a lot of problems."

"You mean like-"

"Stiles!" Lydia cut him off before he could get the elder werewolf's name out.

Stiles pasted on his most innocent look, ready to hit her with the patented "Who me?" that always—rarely, a small voice in the back of his head corrected—worked against his father. "OK, so a club. With us as members. Just in time for you two to leave the contiguous United States. Does anyone else see a problem with this?"

"I'm still having trouble with something," Danny interjected, as if Stiles and Lydia hadn't been talking. "When you say that Jackson is a werewolf..."

Stiles's phone beeped with an incoming Facetime request before he could hear the rest of the question. When he saw who it was, his mouth split into a wide smile. Finally!

He scooped up the last traces of his lunch, crumpling the paper hamburger wrapper into a ball and pitching it toward the garbage can. It missed. "Speaking of werewolves, I have to take this," he stated to no one in particular. Neither of his lunch companions were paying any attention to him now. It was starting to feel disturbingly like a pattern: join the club, hit the bench.

He thumbed the accept button and watched the picture resolve. "Hey, Scotty."

Scott's distressed face popped into view on his phone. His brown hair was a mess like he'd been using it to stick balloons to walls. "Where are you? Can you talk?"

"Hang on." A nod toward Lydia and Danny excused him from the rest of their conversation, which had changed to the two of them leaning across the table to whisper conspiratorially about all the oddities they'd observed.

With a last wave at them, Stiles headed back to his Jeep and the modicum of privacy it offered.

Scott was pacing around his bedroom, holding his phone in one shaky hand that was only more-or-less pointed at his face. A light in his room was on; Stiles could tell because it kept glaring off Scott's eyes into the lens of the camera.

"What's up?" Stiles asked, as soon as he was safely sequestered in the car. He double checked that his windows were rolled up.

Scott threw his other hand out and huffed out a breath, as if that answered the question. When Stiles didn't have a response for that, he added a half-wailed, "It's not fair!"

"Well, I would have had no problem kissing in front of your mom," Stiles countered. He checked the clock on his dashboard. "And aren't you supposed to be at work."

Scott's eyes darted to the clock in his room and he shook his head. "Not yet. Stiles!"

"It would help if you'd tell me what's not fair," Stiles pointed out. "Are we talking about taxes, teachers, or the general question of why bad things happen to good people?"

Drawing in a breath, Scott held the phone still for the first time and told him.

Stiles stared at his screen and the glowing-eyed image of his best friend on the other side of the camera for a long moment before bursting out with, "You can't go to your dad's. We don't even _like _your dad!"

"I know, right?" Scott replied. His voice crackled across the phone's connection. The video froze for a second at the end of his protest, then resumed. "Mom's making me go. She says she doesn't have a choice."

Stiles sputtered, racking a hand up and over the back of his head before concluding, "Well, she probably doesn't. Your dad's refusal to pay child support doesn't mean his parental rights have been revoked."

"How did-?" Scott shook his head. "Never mind. Stiles, I have to be there a month. A month! Do you know what that means?"

Stiles knew exactly what that meant, but he vowed to himself in that moment to not hold it against Scott. It wasn't like he was _choosing_ to come up with another excuse to avoid his promise. That Scott would get his hopes up and then not even give him a proper let down was worse than if he'd just said 'no.' Instead of his real concerns, he opted for humor. Or, what might have passed for humor if he'd had more time to plan it out. "It means that I am going to be totally on my own when the dragon attacks Beacon Hills."

Scott went still, his eyes flaring yellow. "What dragon?"

"I don't know! Don't you think it's time we found a non-werewolf adversary? Since vampires and demons aren't real, I'm rooting for a dragon. Which will naturally show up as soon as you leave and there's no one left to defend our fair town-"

"You're an idiot," Scott interrupted. The accusation came across the line tinny and kind of flat. He reached up and did something that obscured the screen for a moment, frowned at his result, then shook his head. "Stiles! This is important! A month!"

"I heard you the first time," Stiles grumbled. "You're going away and you're going to leave me here. I'll bet there won't even be dragons. It'll just be me and Beacon Hills, for the first time since we were like, eight."

Scott kept talking, but Stiles's thoughts had careened off in their own direction, out of his control.

He could already picture how the summer was going to turn out. During the school year, he didn't have a lot of time to get bored. Mostly, he got home at night in time to collapse into bed and sleep until it was time to start over again. Sometimes he even managed to forget how empty the summers got.

Ever since werewolves were introduced into the equation, he'd had even less time to think about being bored. He was always running after something or being chased by something else. The amount of time he spent being scared out of his wits had gotten pretty high. And now that was over too. The bad guys were dead, the mystery solved, and Scott was going away.

The kiss almost wasn't even important.

In true sidekick fashion, Stiles was being left behind. Lydia was off to Europe to spend an exorbitant amount of money shopping. Danny was off to Hawai'i to visit his family. Stiles didn't even hang out with them normally, and he was already missing the time they still wouldn't have spent together. Allison was gone, Jackson was gone. At the rate people were fleeing to far more exciting locales, Beacon Hills was going to become a ghost town, and he already knew that it wouldn't even have the self-respect to bother with real ghosts.

Stiles dropped his head onto his steering wheel and let out the longest sigh of his life. This was not going to do. He could not be the only person at Beacon Hills high in the fall without a kick ass story for how he'd spent his summer vacation.


End file.
